Water's Edge

Chapter XXX

Rebellion, extinct

I would have slept well if the radio hadn't woken me up. It was howling with news.

"After the arrest of Joseph Quintana, Catalan national, for terrorist activity at the Soames Construction site, police have intervened and have begun arresting the protestors outside Thorngumbald Town Hall. Environmentalists have remarked that they were peacefully protesting, but the damning arrest of Quintana has brought new light to these rebels. Extinction Rebellion symbols have been found as tattoos and flags on their person, furthering the case that they are, indeed, terrorists. More later today."

I took a long sigh. What was it with coppers loving arresting people? Didn't seem to matter now if you had stolen a Marathon bar, or murdered your butler, everything needed the same level of force. Part of me couldn't blame them, but we all knew who the real terrorists were.

I got changed and sniffed my arms. Just a taste of Becky Aster. I showered, feeling old, abandoning the hippies until I felt entirely human.

When I arrived outside the Town Hall, where they had been performing their die-in, everything was chaos. Cordoned off, blue lights blazed across all the hippies laid in long lines on the ground, knelt, handcuffed. Coppers were everywhere, answering their radios crackling in the dawn. I had to admire their tenacity and speed; they had rounded them up with something near balletic elegance. I suppose I couldn't blame them; Josep had nearly burnt down the Soames offices. This was the law in action; this was the protection they spoke of. It was just cack-handed, lacking the nuance. Wren Newport was no terrorist. Or so I thought? Maybe I could get a word in.

I approached the cordon and two officers stepped closer to indicate I was not invited across. I could see Yazmin dishing out orders some distance away, taking a breather by leaning up against one of the many public disorder response Vauxhall Movanos. Wren was thrown into the back of another car, driven off and away, stuttering as it tried to get through crowds of coppers, hippies, and other cars. Amongst the blue throng, I could see Elle Thompson. She clocked me. The radio twanged, and the coppers came further together.

"Not today." One said, and I recognised him now as he leant forward with more derision than before: permission, "Scab."

I smiled – something I only ever saved for a threat – and walked along the edge of the cordon, as close as I could, inspecting the entire scene.

Cameras had been set up at the town hall steps, and Elle Thompson, with help from her bobbies, guided a dejected looking Barnaby Wharton to a microphone altar. He adjusted his tie. Red lights hummed from the cameras. Suddenly, the grace of a politician enveloped him.

"Many of you will want to ask questions as to what is happening in Thorngumbald at this time." He said, placing his hands before him in respectful prayer, "My wife, Edith, who has stood by my side throughout... all of this... she is preparing for our Hector's funeral, a private service. I ask for privacy at this time. But I will tell you this, before I retire to grieve. Those who deem to terrorise us, those who deem that England cannot grow and evolve, have no place in my constituency. All eyes are on the Humber for the first time since the construction of the Bridge, which the children of our academies honour, emblazoned on their blazers every day. Rebels do not honour such things. They care not for the past, or the future. Only a miserable present they long to drag us all into with them. Today is a success, and I thank Chief Constable Elle Thompson, and all official multiple agencies of the police, for removing such people from our streets. Thorngumbald is a proud town, a new town, a light for England's bright future. But more importantly, it's bright present. Thank you."

He had concluded with what I liked to call Starmer hands, pointing emphatically with the knuckle, as close to "your country needs you" as an MP of Beverly & Holderness could get. Elle had glanced to me when the official police had been mentioned; I was being sidelined. If I had to connect the dots of who had murdered these people, children and mayors alike, I had to move quickly.

Where was Edith? Why wasn't she beside her husband? Was it just to prepare a funeral, which easily could be the case, but with how I was being looked at, and how Evgeny was approaching me—unlikely.

"Mr. Wharton wants you to move along." Shvets told me, albeit a little reluctantly, "If you must know Edith is at the house." I hadn't asked, but they knew how a detective thought. They were buddying up with the Chief Constable after all.

I lit a cigarette and stepped away from the cordons of yellow, black and blue. I watched as bobbies took all the environmentalists away, and as quickly as they had turned the place into a crime scene, it all dissolved back into a street. Elle Thompson was efficient, I had to give her that.

She spoke with DCI Yazmin Womack and got into a private car which must be taking her back to the station. Wharton was driven away by Evgeny, who had conspicuously been helping with the proceedings: dogsbodies are allowed, but 'Bow Street Runners' are not. That was a clear message. It was just a few coppers keeping an eye on stragglers, or anyone who might disapprove of arresting so many, and Yazmin. She approached.

"I've been told you are allowed limited access."

"And what does that mean?"

"Ma'am didn't clarify." She was caught between respect and duty, "What do you want to do?"

I took a moment to stub out my cigarette on the floor, tossing the smoke aside away from her face, "I only want to chat with Wren." I said, as a lie. I would have wanted more, but that would do.

"The Chief Constable will want to speak to you." She said, nodding to someone to bring over a car, "She hates you."

"What's new?"